


Bitter Tonic

by fourthfatality



Category: Shiki (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Body Horror, M/M, Mushi-Shi AU, Reincarnation (ish), feds au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 05:31:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1539455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourthfatality/pseuds/fourthfatality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Ozaki has a feeling they've been through this before. And Junior Monk Seishin isn't so sure he's made the right decision. OR the one with a priest, a mushi master, a grumpy agent and a cloying hacker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter Tonic

**Author's Note:**

> A story that's actually two distinct yet interwoven stories; I tried my best to separate them; but it may not be very opaque.

                He swirls the remnants of his drink around and avoids looking at the man seated across from him. They have not spoken a word to each other. It does not escape his notice that they are at the table furthest from the counter and exit. He has his back against the wall.

               The agent told him that their meeting was not an interrogation, and he hasn’t said a word since. He’s older—or at least looks that way because of his eyes and demeanor. Or, perhaps he’s just a weary young man. In either case, there isn’t much thought given to his appearance. His socks are mismatched and his suspenders are uneven.  There is a fresh coat of stubble on his face, indicating a night spent in a cheap motel with a forgotten razor.

               If the feds had any professionalism, this man definitely would not exemplify it.

               “Lying to me is a felony.”

               He smirks. “I thought you said this wasn’t an interrogation.”

               “It isn’t.”

               “Is this how all of your first dates go?”

               “ _Excuse me_?”

               He shrugs. “Why did you drag me out here in the middle of the day? You haven’t given me your name or an official reason.”

               “An ongoing investigation.”

               “Keep telling yourself that.”

               He scowls. “I wouldn’t be inclined to tell you, even if that wasn’t true.”

               “I have the right to ask for your name, right?”

               “Why does that matter?”

               “You’re right. It wouldn’t unless you’re not a real suit.”

               There is a moment of hesitation, and then a nod. “Ozaki,” he says finally.

               “Now, why does that sound so familiar?”

* * *

 

               It’s late summer before Seishin sees him again.  The gentians on the sides of the path leading to the temple have mostly wilted, but the flower on the crest remains in full bloom. He isn’t very predictable. The last time he came by the temple, he brought a medicine made from the roots of some tree whose name Seishin has a hard time pronouncing.

               He goes where the light flow takes him, he says. Though, there’s probably a reason for wandering that is rooted even deeper than that. He was a doctor before he was a mushi master, and Seishin does not know much about his personal life, save for stories about his most interesting clients.

               The priest briefly wonders if he is a story too. A young man with weeds growing on his back, and death close to his being—a story that has a beginning and no end; the mushi master returns with yet another medicine, and nothing seems to work. At first he tried the standard mushi-repellant medicines, and then slowly slid towards alternative treatment. He’s not sure where they are now. Somewhere between grinding herbs he’s found on the mountain to a fine paste and filling drinking bowls up with various types of alcohols.

               They might be skirting the line of something beyond a simple friendship, but it’s hard to tell. A man who leaves before the sun rises may not be the best companion.

               He smiles when he reaches the top of the stairs, and Seishin offers to take his heavy wooden backpack from him. As usual, he is met with a polite, but firm refusal.

               He draws a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and hands Seishin one. “They’re mushi tobacco. A friend of mine makes them.”  

               Seishin nods, and politely accepts it. Truth be told, he’s more fascinated by the man’s clothing than he is by his offering. He always wears western-styled garments with strange fastenings.

               “Let’s see how this works. I’m not expecting it to be a cure, but it’s better than nothing.” He grins.

               There is a part of him that regrets showing the mushi master his back. Each successive treatment is stranger and slightly more humiliating than the last. The tobacco being the exception. Seishin knows he is only trying to help.

               The man thinks that he has discovered his biggest secret. That he can be helped. But he is still very far from the truth.

* * *

 

               He nods. “It should.”

               “Why’s that?”

               “You cost me my job.”

               “That’s a pretty big accusation.”

               “You don’t remember?”

               “Nope. Can’t say I do. “

               He scowls again. “The settlement? The death certificate you dug up?”

               “How long ago was this?”

               He glares, and the man throws his hands up in defeat.

               “That isn’t what you were going to ask me about, was it?”

               “Your name isn’t Muroi, is it?”

               “That’s what I prefer to be called, yes.”

               “There aren’t any official records under that name.”

               He shrugs. “I haven’t gotten around to officially changing it.”

               He scrutinizes him again. “Who exactly are you?”

               “An unpaid intern. I make coffee, and copy and staple papers occasionally.”

               “But you’re more than that.”

               Muroi grins. “You caught me. Sometimes I answer telephones.”

               “Stop.”

               “Look. As much as I’ve enjoyed our coffee date, I’d like a little bit of context. Start with the death certificate and the settlement thing, and end with whatever you’re looking for.”

               “Why would I do that?”

               “I can’t exactly answer questions if I don’t know where you’re going with them.”

               “And you’re going to answer them honestly?”

               “You kind of threatened me with prison and a huge fine, so…”

               He glares.

               “Scout’s honor.”

               “It was about four years ago, I was on call and—“

               “No kidding. I’d like to order some of that hot sausage.”

               Ozaki gives Muroi a sharp, reprimanding look. 

               “Okay. No more noise from the peanut gallery.”

               “The patient that they bring in is fairly important. She was dead before I got to her, but I went ahead and did the standard follow up procedures. I had initially written down the time of death as after I had finished operating, but later revised it to before.” He pauses to take a sip of water. “So, naturally, her family files a lawsuit claiming medical malpractice, and you somehow end up on their side.”

               “How do you know it was me?”

               “I didn’t at first. I just remember this crest. It was a flower with eight or so points. It was the watermark on the copy of the death certificate that was presented at the trial.”

               “Okay, and?”

               “Four years later, I’m working in the cold case department at the FBI, and I see the same seal. It’s an image file on the digital version of the archives where two pieces of evidence should be. These cases are almost forty years apart, so I found it strange.”

               “Brilliant detective work there.”

               He’s met with a scowl. “The cold case archives were digitized by a third party.”

               “So you found the company I work for. And you think I stole evidence from the feds.”

               “I’m not suggesting anything.”

               “Okay. Full disclosure, I remember working on the archives. You guys have the world’s shittiest record keeping system and it was hard enough getting everything on file.”

               “That isn’t what I’m asking about.”

               “Point is. I’m not exactly an official employee. Do you think I’d really leave cute little flower pictures on the FBI database for fun?”

               Ozaki is about to say something.

               “Hate to break it to you, but whatever I was asked to do was part of the job.”

               “What do you mean?”

               “If you can’t find evidence in the archive, it probably wasn’t there in the first place. Or perhaps someone else wanted it deleted.”

               “Are you suggesting that…?”

               “It was probably part of the job, yeah.”

               He rubs his stubble in frustration.

               “Because you’re a swell guy, here’s what I’m willing to do. I can try and find those files again and/or get access to my boss’s database to find out who commissioned the digitization in the first place.”

               “What is it going to cost me?”

               “Drop any charges you have against me, get rid of my legal record, change my name and medical history and half of whatever you make.”

               “That’s a tall order.”

               “So is hacking into a security company’s confidential client database.”

               “… Thirty percent, and you forget about the legal record business.”

               “Deal.” He puts his hand on the table and looks at Ozaki expectantly. “There is something else though.”

               Ozaki rolls his eyes.

               “Assuming I even get through the firewalls and whatever else they have in place, the client stuff may have already gone through a purge.”

               He takes Muroi’s hand. “You do realize that I have to make money before I can give you thirty percent.”

               “I know. Which is why you’re going to have to keep me updated on the entire situation.”

               “I’m not following.”

               “If you hire me it’s going to have to be as a consultant. Or an assistant. Or whatever.”

               “Why is that?”

               “There are two distinct scenarios I’m seeing here. One is that we find the files and the client. And the other is the exact opposite. In either case you’re going to have to follow a cyber-trail.”

               “Is there any particular reason you’re so interested in… whatever this is?”

               “I’m more interested in what happens after.”

 


End file.
